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Do the flowers mourn when one is picked?
I know that question is kinda morbid and sick.
But I’ve always wondered if they somehow know,
Like for weddings and birthdays that it’s their time to go?

Do they feel sorry for lovestruck dames,
That pull off petals whilst saying their crushes’ names,
That pulled the last petal on “He loves me not”?
Do they feel bad that she’s distraught?

Do they compete on who’s the prettiest?
Each person has an opinion of which flower is the best,
Of their looks are they actually aware,
Do flowers even care?
It wouldn't have mattered anyway.
None of them are actually any good.
The "good" ones still lie.
The "good" ones still cheat.
The "good" ones still take the hearts of good women for granted.
What a world.
All I know
Is how
I feel

And sometimes I
Wish I
Knew nothing
As I,
Once lived;
On great mountains;
Making not a piece of sound.
And    in    my    dying   moments,
I lay silent in a bed of pretty flowers.
I’m crushed, with my skin of shaded brown,
Now  a part of the Earth' ground as it  erodes.
In the wind, I whisper whisperings of my time,
A  forgotten  season lost in winter,  and  life.
In  a  forest  filled  to  the  brim  of  d­reams,
Parked       underneath        the       shade,
Once      guarded,        and      unafraid.
And      ­    what           a         shame,
Soon      I’ll      be      gone
With     the     wind,
Forgotten
Of
N
A
M
E
S
Feelings
              that come
                  back
             are feelings
                   that
               never left.

                  Love
                 led me
                    all
                the way
                   back
                  to you.

                    And
                 I'm still
               convinced
                    that
                 the rest
                      of
                  my life
                    looks
                     like
                     you.
                                                                                 Jon York   2019
 May 2019 queen of hearts
JR Falk
so I noticed that we both drink coffee.
just like anyone, we both like ours a certain way.
i like mine sweeter, with just the aftertaste of coffee there.
caramel, sugar, creamer.
i think about when i’ll have my next cup, and the idea of it alone makes me happy.
i don’t care what time of day i have it, i almost always have a cup.
i make time for my coffee.
it might be safe to say i think you like your coffee black.
you might add just the smallest touch to soften its bitter taste, but never too much.
sometimes i think you just pour it and carry on, as though it’s nothing important at all.
as though all it is, is just some quick fix.
like you just want to get it over with.
we drink it in two different ways.
i drink it slowly.
i note every flavor in every sip, i enjoy it.
i note the warmth it brings me.
i like it all hours of the day.
you drink it quickly.
quicker than me, at least.
you don’t care if it burns your tongue, or perhaps you’re used to the pain.
you accept it.
you never let it last, you move on to something else soon after.
i lay in your bed, watching your eyes as they skim the screen in front of you.
your mind is somewhere else.
i savor the moments you look my way, if even for a second, and smile at me.
i wonder if you even notice them.
i feel your laugh vibrate my bones, making the hair on my arms stand on end.
do i make you feel at all?
i reflect on it every time i drink my coffee.
i think about it with each and every sip, taking my time.
something tells me that you don’t do the same.
after all, it's just coffee.
but i put my all into this coffee.
i think you like your coffee black.
3:06am
08.09.18

im actually drinking coffee rn. rip
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